


Welcome To Supernatural

by KarinaxRose



Category: Night Vale - Fandom, Supernatural, Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-08 03:25:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KarinaxRose/pseuds/KarinaxRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two strangers have entered our town, Listeners. I wonder, for their own sake, how long they will last?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome To Supernatural

Welcome to Supernatural

Life in wartime is all the time, specifically, this time. For every day is a constant battle with your inner demons. A battle, ultimately, to the death. Welcome to Night Vale.

We begin our broadcast with a quick reminder for all listeners to breathe. Take a deep breath, especially you. You have been under a lot of stress the last few days; Planning a birthday party for a loved one, working diligently at your day job, and running from faceless floating figures in your sleep. Are you dreaming? Are you awake? Are you dead? No, to all of the above. You are stressed. So take a deep breath, especially you. Even you. It’s good for you, it’s necessary for life, and it’s considered polite, for corpses are difficult to dispose of - as we all know. Especially you. Breathe in. Don’t think about the faceless figures that chase you in your subconscious and quite possibly in reality as well. Don’t stress. Breath out. Repeat, if you want to live.

Listeners, You’ve noticed, haven’t you? I know you’ve noticed. Your family knows you’ve noticed. And as of the memory sweep that will take place in thirty minutes, The Sheriff’s Secret Police will know that you have noticed and they will take action depending on the gravity of the situation. Listeners, you have noticed it. It came roaring down our quiet desert roads in the wee morning hours. It growled and grumbled, it’s tires screeched and the gravel crumbled beneath. From behind solid windows the muffled cries of a late eighties classic rock hit shrilled and the bass boomed and the whole town turned to look. It was none other than a vehicle. To be specific a black 1967 Chevrolet Impala. 

I’m no snob- It’s a nice car! Really. But I mean, who drives an Impala when they know it’s illegal and finable up to three sacrificial blood stones to drive anything but a tan carolla.  
However, this Impala did not ignite in flames as all other illegal vehicles have in the past. Instead it pulled into the Motel 6 near the Arby’s. One man got out from behind the drivers seat and looked up, “See that, Sammy?” He asked out loud, “What did I tell ya?” The man was in a plaid shirt and a leather jacket and was described by onlookers as being a devilishly handsome angel. But we know that angels do not exist and talking about them will cause them to find you and take you away to where angels go when they are being punished. The mysterious man in plaid looked at the flickering lights above the Arby’s, “This is the place he was talking about, look.”

Then, out of the drivers seat, a much taller man with much longer hair emerged. He certainly did have nice hair, but I’ve seen better.  
The man with the decent hair looked at the lights too, “They look normal to me Dean. We’re on a case, don’t get distracted. I hate when you get distracted and start finding cases within cases.”

“I don’t know dude,” said the plaid man to the decent haired man as they walked into the Motel 6, “The way Cas was describing this place, it was damn near Twilight Zone. We might get tied up in here for a while.”

And I have to agree with the man there. You do get tied down to this place. I myself have lived here my whole life. As did my mother and I’m assuming so did the other human involved with bringing me into existence. However my grandparents, who I never met, as they were among the victims of the great Dead Animals Avalanche of ‘55, were immigrants from some far off country that is forbidden to speak of in the media; You know like Yemen, or China and sometimes Russia. But when my grandparents first moved here they said, “You know what? It is impossible to leave this place! We can wander around in circles for years and years until we die mysteriously and in vain and we will probably never get out!” And I agree. You can wander for years looking for the right place to spend your life and then realize that, it’s right here! It has been the whole time and when you realize that, it is impossible to leave! So it looks like we may have two new citizens in our lovely town!

More on our new citizens, but first: The News.

The Daycare Center next door to the Ralphs is under new management. The center will now be run by a swarm of flies that speak broken ebonics. They offer their services for free as long as your child’s name is Jesse, Jess, Jessica or some variation thereupon. When intern Juarez went for a quote from the flies they kept interrupting him before he could tell them why he was there, collectively buzzing and saying, “Where Jesse at? Were the boy at? Who he is? Who is you? Bring the boy! Bring him! Bring the boy or all under us shall perish. All who dug a grave will lie in it. All marked for death will die. All hoping will lose faith. All crying will not be pitied. Where Jesse at?” Juarez then said his name was Juarez and the flies thought that was good enough and they’ve held Juarez hostage ever since. We have not heard from Juarez since his last text giving us the quote, followed by his pleas for release. To the family of intern Juarez, your teenage child is being watched for free and can be picked up... never I guess. 

In other news, The world is just a giant undiscovered playground in which the spectral and visceral beings swing side by side… just passing by the other’s peripheral view, never really locking eyes, never really acknowledging the others very real existence. Existence is a secret. We’ve just been eavesdropping and telling schoolyard-like secrets this whole time. We may have misheard a few important things.

Back to our new citizens. Apparently their names are Sam and Dean Winchester. They were seen checking into the Motel 6 and then running out for their lives.

“What the hell, Dean? I told you I had it!” Yelled Sam in a dramatic cry and flip of his hair. No doubt by his size that whatever it was, he did have it. However Dean did not think so, for he replied:

“Sammy! You did not! Hell, I barely had that thing! What even was that? I’ve read dad’s journal front and back I’ve never seen a creature like that before. I don’t even think I can kill it!”

“Was it a demon? Or like a... a... another God? Or a tulpa?” He shook his mane of long locks and, for this news reporter, that brought back memories... uhh... not that my current memories are unsatisfactory at all. It’s just nice to walk down memory lane sometimes. And I mean the metaphorical memory lane. Not the Memory Lane just after Grindhouse Drive; Because it’s only nice to walk down that memory lane if you for some reason enjoy experiencing repressed memories in eye catching HD and IMAX and 3.1 surround sound on the screens that line the buildings on both sides of the street. 

Outside the Motel 6 the two Winchesters sat on the hood of their car and went through their dad’s journal. No telling for which man the dad in question was the biological and whose was the in law for they both spoke of this dad in as much love and as much disapproval as the other. However the journal they looked through proved unbeneficial.

“Sammy it was a nine foot tall, cloaked dude!” Said the plaid man.

The man with the completely average hair and normal stature replied, “A cloaked dude?”

“What would you call it then, genius?”

“I don’t know... a hooded figure?” The plaid man scoffed at this but his partner went on saying, “Get this. Dad saw a man or woman in a hood while driving once, not too far off from where we are. It vanished in a spark of lightning and left no traces behind. Sounds like our guy.”

“Does dad’s journal mention um... him getting lifted by his feet upside down and shook up nonstop for five straight minutes before vaporizing into a glowing cloud by the son of a bitch at all? I’m telling you dude, this place is Twilight Zone.” It was silent, save for the sounds of cars and diseases passing on the road and in the air, for a few moments between the two as they stared vacantly at the mysterious glowing lights flickering above the Arby’s. The plaid man snapped back, “Dude. How long were we looking at those lights?”

“I don’t remember.”

“It felt like days... but like--”

“I didn’t care.”

“Exactly,” the plaid man smirked, “Twilight Zone?” And the average looking man with the average looking hair laughed.

“You watch too much TV. But I’ll admit, it’s a strange place. I looked it up before the hooded-- or, cloaked dude attacked you. I found a news site for it and clicked on the local news and it was just a picture of a glass of orange juice. And the weather link...”

“What?” Asked the plaid man suspicious and impatiently.

“It just took me to a mp3 download link for some stupid rap song about bus stops. Cas was right for calling us in. Especially since we know there’s more angels here. We just need to find what it is Cas says they’re protecting.”

If you are asking me, these two need to just give up on the whole angels thing. It’s not real! And we’re all getting over it.

But the plaid man responded, “We know what they are protecting. Some... Old Woman Josie.”

“Yeah but why?”

“I don’t know man. How about we interview the locals? Lets head to that Moonlite All Night Diner, they seemed like they’d have decent grub.”

And so they went. 

And now, traffic:  
Are you driving a car? Are you driving a car poorly? Are you asleep at the wheel? Are you? Answer us! Oh my goodness, sir, I think they’re gone... they pushed the button but I’ve heard no voice. This wasn’t in the training. The indicators read the car is still moving, it’s on route 800... what do we do? But code B-9-700 isn’t officially tested or passed any government inspections. Well, if it must be done it must be done. We will save more lives than we will end. Here goes nothing. Activate emergency code protocol B-9-700. Targeting missiles. Rouge vehicle down. Traffic resumed.  
Traffic report brought to you by Onstar.

Um listeners... our new station owners who permitted me just this once to talk about them, have handed me a statement. “DO NOT GIVE INFORMATION TO THE OUTSIDERS. DO NOT TALK TO THE OUTSIDERS. WATCH THE OUTSIDERS AND SEE WHAT WE DO WITH THEM. DO NOT FEAR THE OUTSIDERS. THEY WILL SOON BE GONE.” They also had us send down an intern a while ago to observe them and report back to me so I can broadcast out loud to all those listening who cannot see the public display of the great unknown forces that run our town getting rid of these nosey outsiders. 

\-- What was that?

Listeners... I hear... I don’t know... it sounds like the flapping of leathery wings. Thousands of wings--

Oh, hello. Listeners, there is a man holding a thin silver blade behind the glass outside the recording studio. He has blue eyes, a scruffy grizzled look and a blank expression. He’s just staring at me... Um, I think I’ll... I’ll send you to a message from our sponsors while I sort this out:

Close your drapes. Close all your drapes. Cover yourself in no less than eight protective blankets, sheets, and decorative bath towels. Stand in the center of the room. Pray to a god your government approves of and weep - but do so softly. The eyes on the other side of the window are not your reflection, they belong to someone else entirely and there is no guarantee that that person is your friend. What you say to comfort yourself is a lie.   
The eyes are lies.   
Real eyes realize that you are being watched. You are seen and therefore you are known and therefore you are doomed. Close your drapes. Hide your face. Weep. Weep silently, as those are not your own ears being reflected in the glass window either. But those tears, those hopeless tears, those do belong to you. The face looking back at you weeps for no one and it does not belong to you. It’s watching you. It’s been waiting for you. It has found you. You now belong to it.   
Anna’s Linens, Hiding you... until you are found. Then you are lost to us. 

Listeners, I heard the wings again. I was about to go and ask the grizzled man with the silver blade who he was. But the sound of wings came again stronger and soon he was surrounded by human-looking people but all holding similar blades and carrying the same grizzled expression on their faces.   
It was a short battle, the first man was triumphant. Each of his attackers was vanquished with blinding white lights. He stood over their bodies, huffing, then he looked at me.   
I was cowering behind my chair but peeking over the edge in fascination, it was almost entertaining. Then the man said to me, I could only read his lips but I was positive he said, “Old Woman Josie is not who she says. I should have killed her back when she was a little boy. Before he turned me into a toy.” Like I said I was lip reading. He probably didn’t say he was turned into a toy because that’s impossible; like angels, right listeners? He vanished, and the sound of wings followed. 

Anyhow, station management is getting upset I’m not talking about these mysterious outsiders, so I’ll get to reading intern Micha’s findings.  
According to the reports of Intern Micha, they call themselves hunters. They are apparently hunting us. Their names are Sam and Dean. They’re also brothers... oh... that’s awkward... and they are looking for an angel named Cas. So we know that they are liars because: One: Angels are not real. And two: All angels are named Erika, with a K. 

The hunters sat down in a booth at the Moonlite All Night Diner and the one named Dean perked up at the sign advertising Strawberry Pie and ordered a plate. The hunter with the boring evil hair ordered a salad and a diet coke, pshh who is he trying to impress? We get it you have shoulders!

Anyhow. When their food arrived, according to the text reports of intern Micha, Dean looked rather disappointed when he realized the pie that made Night Vale famous was invisible. When the waitress left, he said a litany of words that I cannot repeat on the radio.

Then Dean got up to, as Micha reports, use the restroom, but she claims he had his eyes on a waitress down a ways. Anyhow, it was just Sam at the table when he was approached by a man in a tan jacket carrying a deer skin briefcase. The man shook Sam’s hand and joined him without a word.

“Can I help you?” Asked Sam, but the man was silent, “Did Garth send you? Or Cas? We need back up.This town... it’s going to take a team of hunters to get to the bottom of all this. Anytime we ask a citizen about the lights or the possibility of angels or hooded figures they either cry, laugh or vibrate until they disappear, one guy even tore out his tongue it’s like... wait. I’ve seen stuff like this before. This kid Jesse... everywhere he went weird stuff followed like stuff out of childhood nightmares and fairy tales and cartoons. He went missing and maybe he’s here! I’ve got to get Dean!” He began to get up but the man in the tan jacket held his wrist and Sam stopped halfway up and returned to his seat. “What’s up?”

The man in the tan jacket then opened his deer skin briefcase. And out came, swarming and speaking in broken ebonics, a dark cloud of flies buzzing saying, “Where he at? Where that boy is? Where Jesse? Bring us the Antichrist!” They enveloped the hunter until he was nothing but a swarm of black buzzing flies, like a collective buzzing shadow presence. And the flies swarmed and flew back into the briefcase, taking Sam or whatever he once was, with them. The man in the tan jacket shut his briefcase and walked away.

That’s where Micha’s report ends. I will bring you more. But first I bring you, the weather:

Carry on my wayward son  
There'll be peace when you are done  
Lay your weary head to rest  
Don't you cry no more

Once I rose above the noise and confusion  
Just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion  
I was soaring ever higher, but I flew too high

Though my eyes could see I still was a blind man  
Though my mind could think I still was a mad man  
I hear the voices when I'm dreaming,  
I can hear them say

Carry on my wayward son,  
There'll be peace when you are done  
Lay your weary head to rest  
Don't you cry no more

Masquerading as a man with a reason  
My charade is the event of the season  
And if I claim to be a wise man,  
Well, it surely means that I don't know

On a stormy sea of moving emotion  
Tossed about, I'm like a ship on the ocean  
I set a course for winds of fortune,  
But I hear the voices say

Carry on my wayward son  
There'll be peace when you are done  
Lay your weary head to rest  
Don't you cry no more no!

Carry on,  
You will always remember  
Carry on,  
Nothing equals the splendor  
Now your life's no longer empty  
Surely heaven waits for you

Carry on my wayward son  
There'll be peace when you are done  
Lay your weary head to rest  
Don't you cry,  
Don't you cry no more,

No more!

 

As he headed out of the diner, Dean came back out, tucking what appeared to be a woman’s phone number into the pocket of his jacket. He looked around and noticed his table empty. His brother was gone. He turned to the next table, “Hey, did you see a man here about-” he extended his hand above his head, “yay big. Lots of hair...”

The man at the table shrugged, “I saw a cloud and that’s all. No boy at that table. Don’t let it bog you down son. Your cloud boy will come back.”

“No,” said Dean, slightly panicking, “He’s not a cloud, he’s a guy! Where is he?! What cloud?!”

Then, everyone in unison spoke, as Dean watched on wide eyed, they all said in clear voices, “All hail. All praise. All hail The Mighty Glow cloud that guides our lives, our hearts, our souls, praise all ye highest to ye powerful Mighty Glow Cloud.”

And Dean ran.

So you see listeners, we are safe from the hunters. And angels do not exist. No word on where Dean went because I got a call from the diner saying that as Micha saw Dean run off, she tried to shove the last five of her invisible fires into her mouth before running after him and she choked.

To the family of intern Micha, she went the way anyone would want, trying to save her great town and enjoying delicious, hot, invisible fries. 

Stay tuned next for the flapping of invisible wings on nonexistent creatures. And until we all are hunted by the invisible forces of life that will one day be the death of us, Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow thenightvalepost.tumblr.com for similar posts.


End file.
